


My Body is a Cage

by Moorishflower



Series: A Cold Academic Hell [31]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2011-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My body is a cage / We take what we're given / Just because you've forgotten / That don't mean you're forgiven / I'm living in an age / That screams my name at night / But when I get to the doorway / There's no one in sight</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Body is a Cage

The sun is shining through the window when Dean wakes up, hitting him directly in the face, and he has a split second of panic where he’s absolutely sure that he’s going to be late for class, or maybe for work. He’ll be late for _something_ is the point, and he grabs wildly for the clock on his nightstand, dragging it close until his sleep-bleary eyes can make out the time and date.

Saturday morning. Eight AM. Dean breathes a sigh of relief. His shift at the garage doesn’t start until tonight.

A hand slides across his hip, over his stomach, resting there with fingers splayed. Dean rolls back over onto his back, the better to see Castiel, who is looking at him with an expression that’s fondly indulgent.

“It is Saturday,” he says, and Dean huffs.

“I can see that.”

Castiel pushes himself up onto one elbow, leaning over Dean and examining him. There should be something clinical about the way Castiel looks at him, what with the intensity of his gaze and the stillness of his expression, but all Dean sees is casual interest.

“Then you were startled for another reason?”

“No.” Dean huffs, glancing away. Castiel smoothes his other hand up Dean’s belly, along his chest until it comes to rest on the tattoo over his heart. Dean reluctantly returns his gaze to Castiel. “I guess I’m not used to waking up next to people.”

“Has it been so long?”

Dean shrugs, grabbing Castiel’s hand and bringing it to his mouth, resting his lips against Castiel’s knuckles. He doesn’t think of the romance of the gesture, only concerned with a desire to feel more of Castiel against him. Castiel’s palms are soft, not at all the rough workman’s hands of someone who works in garage and salvage yard for a living. There are small calluses along the insides of his middle and pointer fingers, and along the length of his thumb: the marks of someone who’s constantly holding a pen. Dean flicks his tongue against those calluses, reveling in Castiel’s soft exhale, and in the way his eyes slip halfway shut for a moment.

“Do not try and change the subject,” he murmurs, and Dean sighs.

“It’s been a long time since I was…involved with someone. Most of the people I sleep with are gone by the time I wake up, or else _I’m_ gone. It’s easier that way.”

“I hope that this is not how our relationship will be.”

“’Course not.” Dean lets go of Castiel’s hand in favor of rolling the man onto his back, knocking Castiel’s arm out from underneath him and pinning him to the bed with his greater weight. Castiel arches, rubbing along Dean in all the right ways, and Dean bites his bottom lip.

“Tell me about them,” Castiel says, and Dean tilts his head.

“Huh?”

“The last time you were…involved. Tell me about it.”

Dean rolls off of Castiel, grunting in annoyance, in frustration. He reaches down and presses his palm against his belly, low and hard, trying to curb his own arousal. Castiel grabs his hand, pulling it away. It doesn’t really help. “Do we really have to talk about this now?”

“If not now, then when?”

Dean opens his mouth, prepared to list a dozen other times that are more suitable to deep, soul-searching conversations (number one on the list: never, number twelve: also never), but the look that Castiel is giving him stops him. Instead, he says, “Why do you want to know?”

Castiel tucks himself against Dean’s side, hand returning to Dean’s chest, stroking over his pectorals. “For the same reason I wish to know the circumstances behind this tattoo.” His thumb strokes the edges of the ink, so light the touch is barely there. “For the reason that I also wish to know what your favorite band is, and what your greatest fear is. Your greatest joy. The list of things I wish to know about you is endless, Dean, because I care about you.”

“Jesus,” Dean mutters. He folds his hand over Castiel’s, holding it there. “Okay. Okay, fine. Her name was…” He swallows. “Her name was Lisa. I was young, and stupid, and she just wanted some stress relief. Me and Sam, and dad, we were in town for like, a month, and Lisa and I…we pretty much fucked like rabbits. We didn’t really think anything of it, you know? We were just having fun. When I left, I was pretty sure I’d never see her again.”

“But you did?”

“Yeah, six years later. She had…” He clears his throat, uncomfortable. He’s only ever talked about this with Sam, and even Sam doesn’t have all the gritty details. Sam only knows that Lisa came back, and she had a kid with her. Sam doesn’t know that Dean still suspects that kid was actually his. “She’d had a kid. She pretty much hunted me down, and she told me he wasn’t mine, but…I think he was, Cas. He looked just like me.”

“What was his name?”

“Ben. Ben Braeden. Lisa just needed some help. Ben was having problems, his teacher said that he was getting into fights, that he was too smart for his own good…Lisa said it was because Ben didn’t have a father figure in his life, and she wanted to know if I was interested in…sticking around for a while.”

“And so you agreed.”

“What else was I supposed to do? This kid, Cas, if you could have seen him…He liked Black Sabbath and he followed me around like a lost puppy. I loved that kid.”

“Yet you are here now. What happened?”

Dean rolls onto his side, putting his back to Castiel, not wanting to look the guy in the face when he says the next part. He doesn’t want Castiel to pity him, and he doesn’t want Castiel to think he’s crazy. “I…freaked out, I guess. I tried. I tried to be a good dad, I tried to be good for _both_ of them, but it was…I don’t know. Lisa wanted these weird things, a house with a fence and…and a trampoline for Ben, and she was always talking about life insurance, and Ben’s college fund, and…she never asked me straight up, but I think she wanted to get hitched. I guess she thought it would make things easier. I was only there for Ben, man. Lisa was part of this whole other world, and I could barely understand her half the time. That kid, though. That little kid was mine. I couldn’t take it, though. It was so weird, I had to leave or else I was gonna go insane. It was better that way for all of us.”

Castiel’s hand slides over Dean’s hip, lingering there. Dean feels Castiel hook his chin over his shoulder, his breath warm against Dean’s cheek.

“There is no shame in admitting weakness.”

“Yeah, but I left them. Sometimes I still think about Ben. What he’s doing now. He’ll be…God, he’s…nine, I think. Maybe ten. I used to send him letters, but…I don’t know if he gets them. If Lisa lets him have them.”

“Sometimes leaving is the only thing we can do,” Castiel murmurs. He kisses Dean’s cheek, humming softly. Dean makes a soft, unhappy noise.

“Now you know. I mean, how shitty I am at relationships. Still want to do this? With me?”

Castiel is silent for what seems like a very long time. Dean’s breath feels heavy in his chest, thick and choking, and he realizes a moment later that it’s because he’s breathing so shallowly.

Then, “I was married.”

Dean blinks. “Huh?”

Castiel presses his mouth against Dean’s neck, kissing it, and then the curve of his shoulder. Avoiding answering. Dean gropes behind him, finding Castiel’s hand and twining their fingers together. “Cas? Did you just say you were married?”

“Yes.”

“To…who?”

“You have met her. Well, seen her. Once, when you visited me…I believe under the pretense of speaking about your schedule…”

“Hey!”

“She was there. We were speaking about…our divorce was still recent. Meg wanted to apologize.”

“Was she the one who wanted to split, then?”

“It was a mutual decision. It was…a marriage of convenience on both our parts. I thought that, if I married a woman, my family would accept me again, and Meg’s mother wanted grandchildren, and a son in law. I found her beautiful, and she found me interesting. It was the best we could do.” Dean feels Castiel duck his head, mumbling against his skin. “Our best was not enough. Meg did not enjoy touching me, and I did not enjoy lying to my family. She eventually told her father about her sexuality, and we divorced.”

“Why did you want your family to accept you?”

“You of all people should know the importance of family.”

Dean rolls onto his other side, facing Castiel, finding Castiel’s cheeks with his palms and framing his jaw, his face. He leans forward and kisses him, and says, “I know that family isn’t always blood,” against Castiel’s lips.

Castiel smiles at him. “We have always been the black sheep, Gabriel and I. The least successful, the least intelligent, inclined towards men and thus unlikely to produce children…”

“Don’t. You’re not any of those things. Fuck your family, if that’s what they think of you. I’m your family now, and Gabriel, and…and Sam, when I tell him, and none of us are gonna tell you that you’re wrong or some shit like that. You’re fine the way you are, Cas. You’re perfect.”

Castiel smiles at him, slow, tiny, and indescribably sweet. “You honestly think this?”  
Dean rolls his shoulders. “Of course. I’m here, aren’t I?” He pats the curve of Castiel’s ass, and then swings his legs over the side of the bed. He fishes around for his jeans, abandoned to the floor the previous night. “Now come on. Let’s get some breakfast, before Sam comes home.”

~

Dean runs the coffee maker, digging through the cupboards to find some _proper_ coffee, not the thick, cheap stuff that they usually buy. When you only have time to brew your own two days out of the week, it’s not usually worth it to go all out for nice, fresh-ground coffee. Dean always buys a little bit, though, for special occasions. He thinks this morning counts as pretty special.

Mindful of Castiel’s dislike for coffee, Dean pulls the kettle out, too, taking out his meager supply of tea and arranging it on the counter for Castiel’s perusal. Then, glancing at the clock (it’s so early, surely Sam won’t be coming back yet? Not if his boyfriend took him home, anyways), Dean heads for the fridge. He might not be America’s next top chef, but there are two things he does really well, and those are breakfast and barbeque. Humming softly to himself, Dean grabs the egg carton and the package of bacon, and then, for good measure, the block of cheddar and an onion that he’s pretty sure Sam used a couple days ago.

He is going to make the best goddamn omelet Castiel has ever tasted, and he has all morning to do it.

He’s in the middle of frying bacon when Sam emerges from his room, wearing nothing but sweatpants, hair fluffed everywhere and wearing an expression that suggests that he doesn’t want to talk about whatever happened last night. Sam gets one foot in the kitchen before he notices that Dean is there. They both freeze.

The bacon sizzles, a horrible soundtrack to the feeling of Dean’s heart sinking down into the pit of his stomach.

“Sammy?”

“Oh shit,” Sam says. “Oh shit.”

Dean is thinking the same thing. Thinking it so loud and fast, in fact, that he doesn’t stop to wonder why _Sam_ is saying it.

The bacon pops. Dean hastily pulls it off the burner, setting the pan aside and turning the stove off.

Castiel chooses that moment to walk in, gaze down, focusing on button his shirt. He’s got pants on, at least, Dean notes. “Dean, I cannot find my tie, do you know…?”

Castiel raises his head just as Sam spins around, eyes wide and hair fucking _everywhere_. Their eyes meet. Dean is uncomfortably aware of the multitude of hickeys that are visible on Castiel’s chest and neck.

“Ah,” Castiel says. His hands fall to his sides. His shirt gapes open at the throat. Even as awkward and horrified as Dean feels, he still wants to step closer and kiss the curve of Castiel’s neck. “Perhaps it would be prudent if I…left.”

“You,” Sam stammers. “He, and you…”

“You frying up some bacon out there, kiddo?”

They all turn to look at the doorway, just as Gabriel – fucking _Gabriel_ \- appears in the hallway, shirtless, pantsless, and _wearing Sam’s boxers_.

“ _You_ ,” Dean growls. Gabriel pauses in the middle of scratching his shoulder.

“Oh,” he says. “Well, shit.”

The smell of bacon is too thick, and there’s a headache threatening to bloom just behind his eyes. Dean pushes past Sam, past Castiel, his shoulder ramming painfully against Gabriel’s as he heads for the door.

“Dean,” Sam calls out, “Dean, wait!”

He grabs his wallet, his keys and his cell phone, and his work boots from where they sit by the front door, black grease smearing across his fingers. Sam calls his name again, but Dean doesn’t stop. The door falls shut behind him with a sharp and sudden _click_.

~

Dean buys a hotel room for the day.

He hasn’t slept in a hotel for what feels like years. Everything seems strange and wrong: the bed is too clean, the sheets are too white, the pillows are too hard. He puts his keys and his wallet on the nightstand, and toes off his boots and leaves them by the door. Then, holding his cell phone cradled in his palm, he lets himself collapse on the crisp white sheets, pressing his nose to the pillow, the smell of detergent and air freshener assaulting him.

His phone buzzes for the eighth time since he left the apartment. He shoves his hand underneath the pillow, listening to the vibrations of the phone from beneath a layer of cotton. He waits until it stops before he pulls it out again, flipping it open and reading the messages Sam has sent him.

 _I can explain_

Followed by,

 _It’s not like you didn’t lie too_

 _Dean, please talk to me_

 _I didn’t want you to freak out please come back_

And then,

 _Dean?_

And,

 _Dean please answer_

 __Please?_ _

Dean scrolls through them, pausing as he reaches the last text.

 _Dean, I know that you are upset with Sam, but I urge you to reconcile with him, We cannot help the ones we love. I have spoken with Gabriel, and he cares deeply for Sam. I have never seen him so invested in a relationship before. If you wish to talk, I am here, and Gabriel is interested in explaining his intentions to you. Please call and let me know that you are all right._

Leave it to Castiel to text him something that would be faster in a phonecall. Dean snorts, flipping his phone closed and then open again, listening to the clack of the plastic. He glances at the clock. It’s been an hour since he left the apartment, so it’s still early, and he doesn’t have to head to work until tonight. Hell, he doesn’t have to go to work at all. If he calls Bobby, if he asks for the night off, tells him that he’s having problems with Sam…

Dean shakes his head. No. Better to throw himself into work than to wallow in anger and self-pity with all the lights off.

He closes his eyes, letting his hands – and his phone – lay still on his chest. He breathes in. Holds it until his lungs feel like they’re going to burst, and then slowly exhales.

Sam lied to him. Sam _lied_ to him. Sam’s lied before, of course, and so has Dean, but this is…After everything Dean did, everything he said, trying to reassure Sam that no matter who he wanted, who he decided to be with, Dean would support him…after all that, Sam still lied. Sam didn’t trust him enough to tell him about Gabriel.

Sam didn’t _trust_ him. Out of everything, it’s that fact that hurts the most.

 

He tries to think about what he knows about Gabriel, and all he can come up with is that he’s older, much older than Sam, that he’s an asshole, that he’s Castiel’s brother. Did Castiel know about Sam and Gabriel? Did he just assume that Dean already knew? How many people have been lying to him for the past few months?

Dean fumbles for his phone, flips it open again and dials Castiel’s number. He curls with his knees up towards his chest as the phone rings. It picks up a second later.

“Dean?”

“Did you know?” No greeting of any kind. If Castiel knew, if he knew and he didn’t tell Dean…

There is silence at the other end of the line. Dean closes his eyes and swallows.

Castiel finally clears his throat. “I…knew that Gabriel was interested in Sam, and that his feelings were reciprocated. I do not know when they became involved romantically, but Gabriel did not speak of Sam outside of generalities, and I assumed that you already knew.”

“How _much_ did you assume I knew?”

“Dean, please, I know that you are angry, and I know that you feel betrayed, but think of your brother. He is happy, Dean.”

“Right now I’m thinking about you and what _else_ you haven’t told me.”

The silence before Castiel’s answer is almost painfully icy. “I have never lied to you, Dean. I have never done a single thing to hurt you. I _would_ never hurt you. You are…the brightness in my life. You make everything seem better simply by being near me.”

“Then why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

Castiel doesn’t answer. They sit there in complete silence for what feels like the longest time.

“Please, Dean.” Castiel’s voice is almost a whisper. “Speak to Sam, or to Gabriel. Ask them their reasons for lying, and see how much they care for each other. Do not let your anger ruin your relationship with your brother.” Castiel doesn’t say _or with me_ , but Dean hears it anyways. His throat feels so thick that it’s almost painful.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, and then hangs up.

He puts his phone on the nightstand, next to his keys, and stares at it for the longest time. Waiting, maybe, for Castiel to call back, but the phone remains silent, and dark, and after a while Dean turns away from it. He presses his face against the strange-smelling pillow, trying to remember how Castiel had smelled when Dean had kissed him, when he had knelt in front of him and pressed his mouth and face to his belly, when he had…

He snarls, slamming his fist against the pillow, once, twice, and then again and again until he’s breathing hard and there’s an ache in his arm from hitting the pillow so hard. He presses his palm to his face, forcing himself to take a deep breath, another, trying to calm himself.

Eventually he pulls the pillow over his head, blocking out the early morning light, and he sleeps without dreaming.


End file.
